


Angels and Demons

by Deanna (SweetSorcery)



Category: Apparitions, Apparitions (TV)
Genre: Angst, Catholic, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Possession, Priest, Religion, Romance, United Kingdom, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:10:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSorcery/pseuds/Deanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael fears nothing more than to be used as a weapon against Father Jacob, and nothing less than proof will reassure him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels and Demons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anotherusedpage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherusedpage/gifts).



Father Jacob smiled at the by now familiar sight: Michael was perched on the edge of the front row pew, looking as if he needed to be there but at the same time felt like an unwelcome guest. He feet were, as usual, bare, and he was wearing, as he often did, pyjama pants with his jumper. And he looked quite hopelessly lost.

Michael jumped up when he heard footsteps, and stared at Father Jacob with wide eyes.

"It's only me," Jacob said soothingly.

As if having needed the verbal confirmation, Michael relaxed visibly. "I'm probably not supposed to be here. It's late."

Shaking his head, Father Jacob assured him, "You're welcome inside the chapel any time."

"I feel safe here." Michael glanced towards the entrance. "The only places I feel safe is here, and wherever you are."

Father Jacob smiled. "Then you should be feeling very safe right now."

Michael blinked at him. He looked back at the pew, then at Father Jacob, and then at the confessional. He was making up his mind about something, but having trouble. Eventually, he said softly, "I want to confess."

"Did your memory return?" Father Jacob kept his voice even. He wasn't sure which answer he would prefer.

"No." Michael crossed the cold stone floor and fumbled with the door to the confessional. "But... maybe, if I sit in there and try to confess, maybe I'll remember."

"You're not Catholic. I'm not allowed to take your confession, Michael."

"Then just let me talk, if I start to remember anything."

"All right." Father Jacob reached past him to open the door for him, and once Michael had stepped inside, he entered the middle compartment.

He sat down and picked up the bible he kept there. He found it comforting to hold it when a confession threatened to become... disturbing. His breathing evened out as he let the chapel's everpresent faint scent of flowers and incense fill his senses, relieved that the unholy stench which had come with that cursed 'gift' bible had vanished at last.

There was utter silence from the penitant's booth, and Father Jacob had to look up and peer through the lattice to make sure Michael hadn't changed his mind and left. He had no intention of pushing. It would be better if those memories returned on their own, and better yet if Michael's own determination could bring them to the surface.

"It's not working," Michael murmured, leaning his head against the thin wall opposite the separation screen with a sigh. "It's just not working."

"Give it time. The more painful a memory, the harder it is to retrive it." Father Jacob gazed at him sadly. "There's probably a part of you that is keeping them suppressed to protect you, emotionally."

"But I want them to come back," Michael insisted. Then, more softly, "I think."

Father Jacob smiled. "Our sense of self-preservation is very strong. We don't like to be hurt, not even by ourselves, so we avoid if for as long as possible, even when it's necessary."

Michael met his eyes. "What am I going to do? The longer I don't remember, the longer they will keep at me, trying to get me to betray and hurt _you_. I can't hurt you!"

"You won't."

"But what if I do? You can't trust me." Michael, quite agitated now, leaned forward, twisting his fingers in the lattice making up the small window between booths. "Help me!"

Father Jacob closed his eyes and lowered his head. When he opened his eyes again, they fell on the bible in his lap. "I will, Michael. I will do everything in my power to help you. And to protect you."

There was some commotion in the next booth, and when Father Jacob looked up, he saw it empty. Before he could wonder why Michael had fled, the thin door to his own booth flew open and Michael stood there, looking frantic. He opened his mouth to question him, but the next moment, Michael was on his knees in front of him, his head on his lap, and the door softly fell shut behind him.

At a loss, Father Jacob sighed, and though he knew he should tell him that he was not permitted to enter this part of the confessional, he could not convince himself that it mattered, under the circumstances. Instead, he laid his hand on Michael's head, smiling because he huddled with his cheek pressed to the back of his hand atop the bible. He began to stroke over his hair with slow, tender motions, as if gentling a frightened child. He could sense the tension in Michael's body, the same tension he had seen in him since the exorcism, keeping him as tightly strung as a bow. But as he continued stroking, not speaking, not questioning or admonishing, he slowly felt that tension draining away.

Michael's head simply lay on his hand now, rather than pressing hard against to keep it from pulling away, and his grip on Father Jacob's trouser leg had relaxed, that hand now resting lightly on his thigh, next to the bible. "Tell me about the archangel Michael."

Father Jacob smiled. "He is the slayer of Satan. He is generally considered the head of God's army. Which is why he is the patron saint of soldiers, amongst other things."

"Oh," Michael whispered. "So he's quite dangerous then. A warrior?"

"He is. But the Book of Enoch speaks of his patience and mercy. And he is associated with the healing arts as well."

Michael turned his head to rest his chin on the back of Father Jacob's hand and looked up at him. "I read in your bible that he is the angel of death."

"Not because he kills," Father Jacob clarified. "He carries the souls of the dead to heaven, where he weighs them and gives them a chance for redemption."

"But he does kill," Michael insisted stubbornly.

"Sometimes, yes." Father Jacob gazed at him softly. He had not lifted his hand off Michael's head, but now he let it slide down the side of his face and cupped his cheek. "Nothing is all black or white, Michael. Either good or evil, right or wrong. There are a thousand shades of grey."

"I'm evil. I know what I did to your friend, whether I remember doing it or not. I must be evil."

"That was not your doing," Father Jacob said firmly, for what felt like the hundredth time. "Michael, you did not choose that."

"Unless it was the evil in my own mind that allowed them to take me over. In which case I did choose it, in a way."

The priest sighed. He lowered his hand to cover Michael's on the bible. "We don't know that yet. From what I can see, and having known you for some time, you're a good man - gentle, shy, and right now, very scared."

"But you can't see my thoughts."

Father Jacob raised a brow. "Are your thoughts so evil?"

"Some of them, yes. Sometimes..." He swallowed. "Maybe they put those thoughts into my head, but I don't think so. It's as if my head can't tell the difference between what I need and what I... desire."

Smiling, Father Jacob assured him, "Many of us have that problem, don't worry about it. It's what willpower is for."

Michael's eyes fixed on his, and he looked suddenly nervous again and as if he was considering running. He spoke as if it cost him dearly, "Sometimes, I think about sullying something pure, and good."

Father Jacob frowned. "What do you mean?"

Michael fidgetted. "You will hate me if I tell you."

"I won't," the priest assured him without hesitation. "I promise I won't. But if you have feelings like that, you must tell me. Talk to me."

Michael shook his head frantically, but he started speaking anyway, "I think they know how safe I feel with you. That I trust you. They know the best way to break me is to make me harm you."

"Harm me? In what way? Kill me, you mean?"

"No." Michael's fingers tightened around Father Jacob's, almost painfully so. He looked down at their entangled fingers and pressed his mouth to them.

Father Jacob felt frozen in place. Even his mouth refused to work when Michael looked up at him, still kneeling but no longer sitting on his haunches, instead leaning forward to arch his neck and press his head to Father Jacob's chest. He let go of the priest's hand to clutch at his tunic, and Father Jacob swallowed hard when Michael turned his face up to press his lips to his neck, knowing Michael would be feeling the movement against his lips. And he closed his eyes when those lips moved up to his jaw, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then to the corner of his mouth, then... fully on his mouth.

He had raised his hand to gently remove Michael's from where it clutched his tunic, but instead, he had covered it. And now, he was not drawing away, simply allowed their mouths to rest against each other softly. When Michael's lips parted a little, his did the same, simply allowing their breath to mingle. Not deepening the kiss, possibly not even turning it into a kiss.

No, it was a kiss.

Michael's lips moved against his, whispering, almost desperately, "Do something. Push me away."

Instead, Father Jacob cupped his face, held it still in warm palms, held the kiss suspended, until Michael sobbed and lowered his head. He pressed his lips to Michael's forehead tenderly, as if in blessing. And then he drew him into his arms and held him close, and Michael's arms moved around his waist as he started crying in earnest.

"Shh... it's all right," Father Jacob soothed. "You see, you didn't harm me. You didn't hurt me. I'm fine. It's all right."

"I might have."

"No." It was said firmly, as if there was no question about it. "If that had been their doing, you would not have been able to stop."

"But if it wasn't..."

Father Jacob closed his eyes, resting his head on Michael's, rocking him gently as he continued to hold him close. But if it wasn't...

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you'll enjoy this treat. Thank you for requesting this heartstoppingly fantastic series. Have a lovely holiday season and a happy new year!


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